


You're the First and Last of Your Kind

by americandy



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, New York, Not Beta Read, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, but less bdsm, journalist steve, photographer bucky, think Robert Mapplethorpe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-23 22:24:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2557895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/americandy/pseuds/americandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers is a fledgling journalist from a newspaper called The Post. His boss, Bruce Banner, offers him the chance to shadow up-and-coming photographer James Barnes for an article that could launch both of their careers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

The portfolio Steve Rogers held in his hands was full of what looked like soft-core gay porn. Black and white photos with incredibly soft lighting of men together in various poses on every page… the ones he currently had the book open to were the least scandalous of them all: the left-hand side featured a hazy close-up of a big hand attached to a sizable wrist and hairy arm strewn across a broad chest, the right pictured pouty lips framed with stubble pressed against a strong neck that had a prominent adam’s apple and a collection of hickies. The images were clearly meant to be erotic, but they were also objectively beautiful, and Steve’s eyes glazed over as he gazed at them.

“Rogers. Rogers. Steve. _Steve!_ ” His editor, Bruce Banner, had to raise his voice to bring him back down to earth. Once he saw Steve’s eyes refocus, he continued on.

“So, what say you? Should I trust you with this assignment? Being that you’re an Idaho boy and all, I would understand if the subject matter makes you uncomfortable… I can’t imagine growing up in the second most conservative state in America. Ugh.” He shuddered visibly at the thought of it.

Steve felt the blush begin to rise to the apples of his cheeks… he _hated_ the fact that Banner even gave him an out like that, like taking the first feature offered to him was even a question. The article would be six pages in their October issue. Six pages with a Steve Rogers byline. He clenched his fist hard for a second, and gathered his response.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Bruce. This guy, James Barnes, you said?” Bruce nodded. “He looks like he might be the next Robert Mapplethorpe… Some of these are breathtaking. This may be out of line, but I resent the implication that the place my family happened to live would mean anything about my own personal beliefs. I went to NYU too, remember?” Bruce raised an eyebrow in shock and he couldn’t do a thing to stop the smile that developed at the audacity of his employee’s response. Maybe this kid had a chance after all.

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for an artsy guy, Rogers, much less someone familiar with Mapplethorpe. That makes me feel a little better about giving this to you. The guy goes by Bucky, by the way. He’s expecting someone from the Post to arrive tomorrow and shadow him for a few days. I’m going to be perfectly candid with you now: I asked you to do this both because you keep turning in solid work and also because you happen to be Bucky’s type, if his work is anything to go by. If you’re as determined as I think you are, you’ll get material for this no one else could.” At the admission that he was James Barnes’s type, his stomach turned over. Not in a bad way, no, just in a nervous way. This would be the article that could cement his place at the Post, not to mention launch this photographer’s career. He wouldn’t fuck it up. After swallowing thickly, he offered Bruce his most blinding smile.

“You won’t regret this, I promise.” Steve tried to speak as confidently as possible, and the tone he managed assuaged the both of them slightly. Fake it ‘til you make it, he thought.


	2. flower, you're the chosen one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting James.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this part is from 'Left Hand Free' by Alt-J. Again, I'm thinking this is going to be a pretty slow build. Have some patience with me. [One of carvaggio's boys](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/64/Boy_with_a_Basket_of_Fruit-Caravaggio_\(1593\).jpg) for reference.

That night, Steve created a dossier on James ‘Bucky’ Barnes. There wasn’t much information to be found about him online but his work was immensely popular on the website Tumblr. James had his own blog that he used to post his photos and collect inspiration, according to his description. His gentler imagery seemed to be preferred by the masses, a simple photo of the backs of two shirtless men in dark jeans holding hands in front of a paint splattered wall had thousands of notes. He had put a variety of his work online as well as candids that would have been more at home on Instagram: images of himself and friends out at parties, his dog Max, and more than a few of the NYC skyline. Looking back and forth between his professional work and his personal photos, it became clear that he acted as a model in some of his work. James was beautiful enough to be a model, though. He had blue eyes that were more like ice than the ocean and a sort of grungy James Dean thing going on stylistically. It wasn’t ugly self-indulgence, at least not entirely. After printing out page after page of photos, including the one he’d stared at earlier in the day of that pouty mouth pressed open against a neck with a constellation of hickies, he realized those lips belonged to James.

He spread the photos out on the wood floor of his loft, keeping that picture in particular in the middle of them all. A strange feeling had settled on him; it felt especially obvious across the line of his shoulders and in the pit of his stomach. There was a little fear and a whole lot of nervous anticipation that seemed to live just under the surface of his skin as he learned more about his subject. He studied the media James reblogged and learned the films he liked (mostly anything that could be considered good queer cinema). The more of James’s work that he saw, the more he saw Bruce was right, he seemed to be just the kind of man James liked to capture. Steve had been a football player through the entirety of high school and some of college, so he had grown accustomed to keeping up a certain level of fitness, so his physique was quite similar to those of the men in the photos. The game hadn’t been anything he liked particularly, the culture around it something he abhorred completely, but there was something about the nature of the team he hadn’t been able to give up for a long while. The musculature of the boys James photographed and kissed and touched reminded Steve of himself and the teams he had played on over the years. He wondered if James would like him too, would want to take pictures of him too, would want to do those things to him too.

He fell asleep watching a film that had come up on the blog he’d been studying more than once called _Les Amours Imaginaires_. It was a Canadian French piece about pair of friends who fall for the same man. Steve’s eyes grew weary of reading subtitles sometime after midnight and he fell asleep before he could see if the man would choose the boy or the girl, but the dreams he slipped into were surreal like some of the scenes he had just watched. James was the star of his mind’s eye that night, cavorting about moodily amongst falling leaves, unhappily smoking a cigarette, shirtless in a rain of marshmallows. Then he was in the dreams too, lying in the dead leaves with James, plucking the cigarette from his mouth and taking a drag for himself. Then his mind went from Technicolor to black and white, and James got busy with his mouth, leaving bruises on the crux of his neck and his shoulder. He had become the subject of _that_ photo.

Steve woke up with a jolt, sweaty and uncomfortable under his quilt. His apartment wasn’t particularly warm but he told himself the thermostat was responsible for the state he was in anyway, instead of say, a wildly unbecoming collection of dreams to have about a man he would have to meet in mere hours. A client. The morning wood he had going on definitely had nothing at all to do with that either. He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to compose himself, but it didn’t do much in the way of helping. He rose with a sigh and went to the bathroom to look at himself in the mirror. The flush across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose was stupidly incriminating and made him feel somewhat shameful but it was nothing that a quick shower couldn’t wash away.

When he dressed, he thought only of the first impression he would make on James and how best to appease his aesthetic. Deciding to rely on his natural attributes rather than attempt to create some semblance of a style other than former jock turned big nerd, he decided on a white t-shirt and slim cut jeans. Even that hadn’t looked right until he rolled up the sleeves twice, but once he did, it took him into the realm of a pin-up. It took fifteen minutes to play with pomade in his hair to get to a place he deemed acceptable, which was strange, because it usually wasn’t something he considered too heavily. He just… really wanted this to go well. He wanted to blow Bruce’s mind with the article, of course, but he also wanted those pouty lips of James’s to curl up into a smile at the sight of him. Confident that he looked the best he possibly could and far too nervous to eat anything, he left early for the train to Scarsdale.

It was only an hour’s ride away and the time passed quickly as he went through the bullet points of what he wanted to discuss with James today. They were going to meet at an eatery by his studio, which Bruce had described as only passing as such in the loosest definition of the word. Steve was excited to see James’s humble beginnings and he thought for a moment about a future where they might both have long and illustrious careers, meeting up from time to time to celebrate their successes. There was no law against being an optimist and Steve was positive to a fault at times. Today he would ask James about growing up, why he chose photography over any other form of art, the nature of using yourself as a subject, and the things that have influenced him the most. He wasn’t planning on doing a real question and answer sort of session as opposed to letting conversation flow naturally while keeping it centered on that collection of topics.

When he arrived in Scarsdale, he hailed one of the few taxis waiting outside of the station and gave the driver the name of the place he was meeting James at. The sky was overcast and the air outside was so humid it felt like walking through soup but the air conditioning in the taxi soothed him to the point of vaguely desiring a nap. He decided he definitely should have eaten something just as the driver pulled up in front of the diner that James had specified. As he got out of the car, an older couple opened the glass door of the establishment to leave, and the most wonderful aroma of slightly greasy breakfast food wafted out. Steve silently blessed James for choosing the place as he caught the door before it closed again and went inside to look for him.

He was early for their meeting and fully expected to sit and wait for his subject to show up for however fashionably late someone like James might want to be, but immediately upon entering the restaurant his eyes fell onto the corner booth, where the man himself was looking at a menu. To say that James Buchanan stuck out like a sore thumb is too clumsy to accurately describe the way he was different from everyone else in the room. With his shoulders curved in a black leather jacket and a face prettier than anything Caravaggio could have painted, he was like a clash of the past and the present confined in a cool package. The air about him was completely unique; his attitude seemed to permeate the space around him in a ten foot radius, and Steve was struck from that far away. He felt the way that James was different in the middle of his chest. Taking in a deep breath, he assumed what was supposed to be a dreamy smile and approached him.

James glanced up, maybe just by chance, as Steve was walking toward him. He saw the way James’s eyes went from his face to his arms and down the line of his body, then back up again. The menu droops in his hands as he watches Steve. He wondered if James had a hungry gaze by nature or if this one was just for him. He would have to see over the coming days. When Steve reached the table, he brightened up his smile.

“You’re here early,” was the first thing he said to James. Immediately, James smiled.

“You are too.” He replied.  “If I’d known they were sending Adonis to come and talk to me I would’ve brought grapes to feed you one by one… we’ll have to see if we can order some,” he said honestly, and then laughed when he saw the way Steve’s eyebrows shot up.

“Sorry dear, you look sweeter than a Georgia peach and I’m all out of sorts. What’s your name?”

“Steve. And you’re James Buchanan Barnes.” He said as he sat down across from him, avoiding commenting on the way he’d been so forward. James scoffed when Steve said his name.

“Please, call me Bucky.” He paused for a moment and Steve nodded accordingly. “I’m sorry for being so… you know. I’ve talked with plenty a therapist about this, believe me, but I can’t seem to quell a penchant for guys who look like the ones who beat me up in high school. Were you a football player? I bet you were. Quarterback?” He said that all at once, his tone verging on apologetic, his smile fading into a look of sincere interest. Steve ducked his head in acknowledgement at Bucky’s guess.

“Linebacker, actually. I was wondering about the types of men you include in your work, but I guess you’re ahead of me on that one.” Just like that, Bucky’s smile was back.

“Wish fulfillment at its best,” he said in a low voice. “Every well built model that lets me kiss his him, dig my fingers into his hard-sought-after muscles, pull his hair, and take pictures of it all…” His eyes hardened. “They’re all part of a lifelong fuck-you I’m cultivating against the boys who would leave me with a dripping nose full of blood and bruised ribs. Look at me now, you know?” He added conspiratorially.

With every word, Steve was feeling more excited about the coming days and the resulting article. Someone like this would be remembered by the ages, and he would help make it happen.


	3. all the rain promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from 'longevity' by yeasayer!

Steve momentarily lost himself in the thoughts of the future and in a second Bucky noticed the change in his eyes.

"Now why are you looking at me like that, Steve? Don't tell me your machismo is so strong you're sympathizing with your own mostly barbaric kind... they've been barbaric to me, anyway." Bucky trailed off, looking at his hands. Steve smiled and leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table and folding his arms.

"D'you really think I'm one of those types? I'll thank you for not holding my athletic history against me," he said wryly. "I hated the sport, actually."

Bucky leaned back against the booth, an eyebrow quirked in surprise.

"Did you now? How long did you play?" His eyes drifted down to Steve's arms, where the rolled up sleeves of his t-shirt strained against the circumference of his muscles.

"Seven years," Steve said, suddenly ashamed, ducking his head and rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. When he looked back up at Bucky, he had his teeth sunk in his lower lip like he was trying his hardest to bite back a smile.

"You hated the sport, but you played for seven years, huh. What kept you in it? My mind is running wild right now, I'll have you know."

Steve could guess what Bucky was imagining, it was probably something about lingering looks across the practice field and steamy shower secrets and the general concept of muscular sweaty boys falling all over each other.

"I'll be honest with you, Bucky Barnes, and with myself too. I used to say it was something about being on a team, the camaraderie and trust of it all, but maybe, just maybe, an ounce of the things you're thinking of may have contributed to my decision-making." As he acquiesced, his voice got quieter, because truth is less scary if you say it in hushed tones.

Bucky's jaw dropped and his mouth split into the most ridiculous smile.

"Steve... What's your last name? I need it for effect."

"Rogers," he said helplessly, ready for whatever Bucky had in the barrel for him.

"Steve Rogers, you are full of surprises. And you're so handsome someone should cast your face in bronze, or bring Michelangelo back from the dead to carve you out of marble, like David's hotter older brother." Bucky whistled after he said it, the kind of whistle that says 'my brain likes to think about that'.

Before Steve had a chance to respond, the waitress who had arrived at their table an unknowable amount of time ago cleared her throat. When both of them gawked up at her, surprised she was there, she smiled.

“My name’s Lucy and I’ll be your waitress this morning. What can I get you boys started off with to drink?” Correction, she smiled at Steve.

With her perky blonde ponytail and raspberry stained lips, she looked like the kind of girl a boy like Steve was supposed to be into. The stereotypical cheerleader slash football player archetype at work in real life. Steve had had to carefully avoid it during high school, less so in college, but even now he hated having to play into it. So he decided not to.

“Well, Lucy, I would love an orange juice. My boyfriend here will have a coffee, black, but could you bring cream and sugar just in case he decides to lighten up?” The momentary look of dismay on her face was everything he needed, and he flashed a million watt smile at her, the kind to make her wish he was hers instead.

“Sure thing,” She said, her own smile one tenth of what her original had been.

“Thanks!” He said as she turned on her heel, while he turned his attention back to Bucky, who was looking at Steve with something in his eye that Steve didn’t know him well enough yet to place. He was biting his lip, _again_ , and Steve reached across the table to take one of Bucky’s hands in his.

“Gotta keep up the act,” he said in a stage whisper. This is where he would show Bucky why he should be open with him, why he should share with him, why he should trust him.

“I bet she reminds you of high school too, no? How much you wanna bet she could get some pep going in this place with a few claps of her hands, some rhythmic gesturing, and maybe a commanding yell or two?” Bucky, who had been silent up until this point, burst out laughing.

Lucy chose that time to come back with their drinks, and Steve laid his other hand on top of Bucky’s, so that he was holding it between his. Bucky’s hand was a little smaller than his, paler, a little less rough. Spoke of a different upbringing than Steve’s.

She set Steve’s orange juice and Bucky’s coffee down at the edge of the table, staring intently at the task instead of them. She took the pot of creamer from the tray and put it next to the coffee, then the sugar shaker too. Finally, she looked at them, unable to stop her eyes from going over their hands before meeting first Steve’s eyes, and then Bucky’s. She smiled again, not her best effort, but trying more this time.

“Thanks,” Bucky said now, the most delicious smile curving across his features. He looked like a smug bastard, but it looked surprisingly good on him. Like it was a face he didn’t wear often.

“No problem,” Lucy replied astutely, keeping that grin in place. “Have you boys had enough time to decide on an order?”

Steve hadn’t quite realized the way they’d only been concentrating on each other up until that moment specifically. The drink order had come naturally in the spur of the moment but this was too much to improvise.

“No, sorry doll, could you give us a few minutes?” Steve asked truly sheepishly. The corners of Lucy’s mouth turned up slightly, probably at the pet name.

“I’ll be back in a bit!” She said before walking away again. Steve shifted his focus back to Bucky, and Bucky’s hand. He wove their fingers together and used his other hand to stroke the top of his new friend – his new client’s hand. _What a queerly unprofessional thing to have done_ , Steve thought to himself. Bucky’s eyes were a little wide, but Steve didn’t think he was uncomfortable.

“I don’t know why you think you know me, Rogers,” Bucky said suddenly. Steve almost gasped, and withdrew both of his hands from Bucky’s, whose eyebrows knit together at the loss of contact.

“I don’t know why you think you know me, as I was saying, but you do. You must have a psychology degree tucked away in your back pocket.” He reached out and took one of Steve’s hands back. “More than one cheer squad darling has slung shit at me over the years, let me tell you. I’m a little scared, Steve. Did you study me or something?”

Bucky studied his face, waiting for a response. When Steve hesitated, he actually did gasp.

“You _did_?” He asked him incredulously. Steve felt a furious blush rising in his cheeks… The kind of color that would make him look like he just got done running.

“Kind of! There’s not that much out there on you, man! I looked at your blog for a while,” he paused, giving Bucky time to process. The way he was doing so was rolling his eyes as hard as he possibly could.

“Fucking Tumblr!” He felt like he wanted to lay a curse down on the all encompassing ‘staff’ that ran the website. His fingers tightened around Steve’s.

“Hey, hey, easy,” Steve said, squeezing Bucky’s fingers back to let him know he had done the same thing. When Bucky calmed it down a little, Steve tried to assuage his thoughts.

“All I learned from it is that you seem to be popular on there, you have a dog, and you model in some of your own work. _That’s it_.” He paused, remembered something, and had to add-on: “That’s not quite true. You also have a pretty solid taste in movies. I fell asleep watching _Les Amours Imaginaires_ last night.”

Bucky’s smile was immediate, and Steve actually took a second to appreciate how pretty happiness made his features look. He made a mental note to suggest a smiling portrait as the lead photograph, fearing they’d try to go the ‘rebel without a cause’ route instead. Admittedly, it seemed to be a motif he was going for, but Steve just thought his smile was so much nicer.

“Yeah?” Bucky asked, and the corners of his eyes were wrinkled up because of how happy he was.

“Yeah,” Steve replied in his most confident voice. He met Bucky’s smile with one of his own, the real kind that made his nose look stupid. “The things I figured out about you have all been spur of the moment, Buck. My instincts on you are good, I guess.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Bucky said, and squeezed Steve’s hand again. “What do you want to eat? We better decide before she comes back… Did you see her look at our hands like that?”

Steve scanned the menu and nodded. “Let her stare,” he said. “I’m in the mood for an expansive breakfast ‘cause I didn’t eat before I came here. Nerves got to me instead.”

“Breakfast sounds good to me too, the crepes here are really delicious. You should try the elderberry ones with whatever sides you were thinking about… I promise you won’t regret it.”

Steve smiled, remembering how he had said the same thing to Bruce Banner a day ago with regards to the assignment at hand. The assignment sitting across from him, holding his hand. Bruce’s other words hit him suddenly: “ _If you’re as determined as I think you are, you’ll get material for this no one else could.”_ Looking at their hands, and Bucky’s face, waiting for him to respond, he wondered how Bruce could have possibly known.

“Sure, I like a good crepe. What are you going to get?” Steve asked as he leaned back against the booth, finally relaxing.

“The same,” Bucky said, leaning forward, inadvertently or _maybe_ intentionally trying to keep the distance between them the same. He decided he liked Steve. Didn’t just like his face and his arms and his smile and his undoubtedly strong chest underneath that t-shirt, but the person he seemed to be, too.

Lucy approached them then, and Steve thought then that the timing of their whole interaction had seemed like it was from a movie. The entire thing set up to help the two of them get along, make good first impressions… Like the fates decided Steve was right, this would be the thing to change their lives.


	4. i'm your biggest fan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from 'beach' by san cisco. I think I'm going to make a mixtape for these two.

Eating breakfast with someone you’ve only just met is awkward just because of the nature of the event, but Steve and Bucky managed to make it through just fine. Neither of them had insane eating habits though the face Steve made when he saw his order of bacon was a wonder for Bucky to behold, reminiscent of a child on Christmas morning.

"Thank you Lucy, thank you so much!" Steve said to her, overjoyed. When she walked away, Bucky made a point of exaggerating his expression of disbelief. Steve was so preoccupied he didn’t see it until Bucky had been holding it for about fifteen seconds.

"Don’t look at me like that," he said, covering his mouthful of bacon with his fingers. "Bacon is the candy of the meat universe, Barnes! One hundred percent bad for you but one hundred percent delicious."

Bucky smiled and started to cut into his first crepe.

"Like most good things in life, hmm?" He asked, and Steve nodded, filing it away for the article. What a perfect thing to say… A perfectly Bucky thing to say. He already had a sense of the sort of character he would develop for the article and it hadn’t been more than a half hour.

They devoured their food and moved slowly around the signposts Steve had mentally created for the conversation. Bucky was ridiculously easy to talk to… He made Steve feel kind of nervous still, like he was back in college and talking to upperclassmen in sweaters with curly hair and big vocabularies and important destinies to go on to. Bucky seemed like a man on the brink of something, and Steve felt so lucky to witness him in the time before.

He had a lot to say about the things Steve casually brought up. On modeling in his own work: “Well, I’m not a hideous beast, and neither are the boys who get in front of my camera. Why direct them with my voice when I could with my body?” He laughed after he said that. “God, I sound so predatory. Don’t put that in the article. I promise it’s consensual. I put the _sensual_ in consensual. I don’t like it unless I can see the blush in his cheeks too… I haven’t yet, but capturing the way a man looks in the space between the thoughts ‘I want to kiss him’ and ‘I’m going to kiss him’ is something I think about all the time.”

 _God_ , Steve had a great deal of trouble following Bucky’s words when he said things like that. He was a man with ideas like paintings that haven’t come into being yet but are beautiful to look at, even if only in your mind’s eye.

He chose photography because of his inability to paint or draw. Unable to create the image he saw in his head with pencil or pastel or charcoal or acrylic, he decided to try to make them real life.

“Would you be happy if someone tried to create the images you have in different media?” Steve asked him, seeing an opportunity for a potential companion piece.

“Fuck no. I couldn’t do it but I also don’t give a shit about the people who could. It’s like… I’m creating my world through photography, my perfect world, my perfect life, and if anyone tried to copy it it’d be like Cinderella’s stepsisters trying to shove their fat feet into her glass slipper. Did you know that in the original, they cut parts of their feet away so that they fit in the shoe? Like with a knife?”

He seemed to relish the twisted nature of the truth of the fairytale. Steve made a face at the gruesomeness, but he understood that his idea had been a bad one.

“The brothers Grimm were some sad dudes. Did you ever go through a serial killer phase?” From Bucky’s expression, Steve could see he didn’t quite understand the question.

“No, not like did you murder more than three people.” He waited until the worry in Bucky’s face dissolved. “I mean like did you ever become fascinated with them? I feel like everyone has a favorite,” Bucky’s nose wrinkled at the suggestion so Steve reworded the question. “Favorite is the wrong word for it, undeniably, but I mean like one person that sticks with you the most. I studied Dahmer almost obsessively in high school because of the whole gay factor he had going on. And the cannibalism, because Jesus Christ, yuck. But mostly the gay thing.”

Bucky’s nose remained wrinkled; his distaste for the direction the conversation had taken completely evident.

“No, I never quite got that dark, but my real life had enough horror in it at that point. I didn’t need to go looking for bloodshed ‘cause the goalie from two desks down would have been happy to kick me in the teeth and give me a real taste of it.”

“Were you flamboyant in high school? It sounds like it was an awful time.” Steve frowned as he said it because he didn’t like thinking about the way people like him were cruel to the man sitting across from him. Bucky snorted and found Steve’s hand that wasn’t currently holding a fork.

“Do you think I’m flamboyant now? I swear I haven’t changed a bit since then.”

Steve’s eyebrows raised in the middle as a visible indicator of the way his heart broke for Bucky in that moment. He'd had this quiet, beautiful fire his whole life, and been treated like shit regardless.

“A little forward, sure. But you’re about as flamboyant as James Dean.” Steve offered with a smile. Bucky huffed out a breath and brushed his thumb over Steve’s knuckles.

“I’ve only been so flirty with you ‘cause I could tell you were different the first time my eyes graced your frame, Steve Rogers. I was as quiet and unassuming as a church mouse in high school. I _think_ what was wrong with me was I grew up in a small town.” Steve was blown away by what Bucky had just said for two reasons: the first of which being that Bucky said he could tell Steve was different just by looking at him (What did he mean? Different like not straight? Different like the way Steve had immediately categorized Bucky, based on his vibes alone?), the second being that he had just been a victim of geography. If his parents had thought to settle a little further south, and by little he means even just twenty minutes, maybe he wouldn’t have had to experience such nastiness.

It had been easy for Steve to get by in a small town because he was an inconspicuous type. Involved in football, casual acquaintances with everyone, handsome enough to smile his way out of any scrape. Taking a random girl amongst a huge group of friends to one dance or another had even been fun; the preppy kids really liked to party and parties are perfectly ambiguous places where almost anything can go, as long as you find a corner isolated enough to stumble off to.

There were other boys with secrets like Steve and they seemed to find each other, especially after six shots of the sharpie-scented Malibu that the girls liked so much. Before he got too deep into thinking about them, he switched gears and got back to Bucky.

“I could tell you were different too,” he said, smiling and looking at his plate. “Something about your shoulders and your eyes.” Steve looked up when Bucky laughed. “I promise I’ll put it into better terms for the article. I’m still figuring some stuff out up here,” he tapped the side of his head.

“My shoulders and my eyes,” Bucky repeated.

They talked until they couldn’t eat a single bite more, and then they kept talking. Lucy wandered over several times to try to suggest that they’d better order things to keep the table in so many words and once the plates from their breakfast bonanza had been cleared away, they decided to ‘share a piece of pie’. They told Lucy she could choose it, and so a piece of blueberry with a melting dollop of whipped cream sat between them for the better part of forty minutes.

Steve felt sad that the conversation was winding down, but he was _so excited_ to get home and write. He didn’t want to forget a single perfect thing Bucky had said. With a heavy sigh, he suggested they ask for the bill. Bucky’s lips pressed together in a pout at the notion of leaving, and Steve saw _that photo_ clear as day in his mind. Then the dream came back to him, and he remembered the way those lips might have felt on his neck.

“ _I said_ , are you as sour about our time together being over as I am? I feel like I could talk to you for days.” He said with a confessional air. Steve shook himself internally and grabbed Bucky’s hand between his own again.

“Luckily, we have _days_. Bruce told me I’d be shadowing you for most of this week. But right now, I have to go start crafting your glittering personality into word form.” He smiled at Bucky, letting him know that he wasn’t even being facetious with ‘glittering’.

“Tomorrow I’m gonna take you to my studio, Steve Rogers. And then somewhere else.” Bucky couldn’t help returning Steve’s smile; he was excited about the mystery place.

“Whatever you say, boss,” Steve said, bringing Bucky’s hand to him across the table, pressing his lips against his knuckles just in time for Lucy, who had come with their bill, to see. She was tired of the way they’d lingered.

“You can pay at the register, have a good day,” she said without much conviction, while turning on her heel.

Steve paid for their breakfast on The Post’s dime and left her a twenty percent tip for all they’d put her through. They walked out of the diner hand in hand, ever the committed actors. They stopped in front of the glass door they’d just exited, when Bucky pulled on Steve’s arm.

“Walk me to my car like a good boyfriend, Stevey,” he said, mirth evident in every syllable, as he was already pulling him in what Steve had to guess was the right direction.

“I will if you never call me that again, _James,_ ” his tone was equally as light as he followed Bucky to his car. They came to a stop in front of a Kia something or other, and Bucky watched Steve asses the vehicle. He untangled his fingers from Steve’s and ran them up his arm, stopping just below the rolled up sleeve of his shirt.

“God, I bet you drive a Ford truck of some kind,” his eyes watched the way Steve’s arm didn’t give under the press of his fingers before finally looking back up at him for an answer. Steve stepped toward Bucky and straightened the lapel of his leather jacket.

“Actually, I use public transportation when I can, and taxis everywhere else.” He spoke quietly because they were in such close proximity. They honestly could have been talking about foreign affairs or Madonna or anything in the whole world, because all Steve could concentrate on was how close they were together, and how he only wanted to erase the space left in between them. He felt Bucky’s sigh on his neck.

“Of course you’re environmentally aware. Of course. I should have remembered, you’re full of surprises.” Bucky was looking at him like he was waiting for something. Deciding to diffuse the tension, Steve took a step back, and stuck out his hand.

“It was nice to meet you, Bucky. I can’t wait to see you tomorrow... I think Bruce gave you my email, just send me an address and a time and I’ll be there with bells on.” His tone was overly formal, as if trying to erase the past thirty seconds of whatever that just was. Bucky stared at his hand like it was an alien thing for a few seconds before meeting it with his own, nodding his head slowly.

“You too, Steve. I’ll be sure to let you know.” It felt _so_ strange to be talking to each other like this now. Before Bucky had a chance to let go of his hand, Steve leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. He felt silly, more awkward than before, but he wanted Bucky to know he was still in that space too. Bucky smelled like lavender and sage, clean and warm. The small smile on his face was worth it when Steve pulled back and let go of his hand.

“Bye Bucky,” he said, finding his own stupid mouth doing just the same.


	5. lust only grows (like anger and revenge)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from 'love lust' by king charles. this is so short but ugh, I needed to get it out of my brain and into yours

That night, the dreams were back. Well, in a way. Thematically. If Bucky hadn’t made that stupid little comment about him being the David’s hotter older brother, or if Steve hadn’t spent almost the entirety of his day thinking about Bucky in a hundred different ways, maybe last night’s disaster wouldn’t have come into existence.

He came into being right in the middle of it, standing in the middle of a room that could have been in Versailles. The first thing he noticed was how naked he was, shivering a little at the feeling of the air on his skin. The second thing he noticed was a noise like flint against steel, like trying to start a fire.

He turned around to find a massive column of creamy white marble. Suddenly, Bucky leaned out from behind it, covered in a dust like chalk and holding onto a chisel. He was wearing period clothing, Steve surmised. A ridiculous billowy shirt was all he could see from the angle Bucky had poked out from behind the obelisk at.

“Turn back around, please, thank you.” He called out from behind the stone. Steve felt extremely exposed… and strangely electric. This wasn’t a dream he could control, so he found himself turning back around for Bucky.

“Assume the pose I put you in, please,” Bucky called to him again, but for the life of him, Steve couldn’t remember the pose. He struggled, adopting a generic strong man’s sort of pose, with his shoulders back and his chest thrown forward. He apparently hadn’t found the right one because he heard the chisel clatter to the floor. He turned his head just in time to see Bucky coming up behind him with a look of mild annoyance on his face.

“We’ve been over this, Steve,” he said as he stopped right behind him. Steve turned his head forward again, ready for Bucky to place him.

“I’m sorry about it, Buck,” he sadly intoned, like this was the most disappointing thing he’d ever done to Bucky. He stood stock still, and then Bucky’s voice was low in his ear all of a sudden.

“Now feel me move you, and don’t forget it this time,” he said, his voice rough. Then he felt Bucky go right to business, threading his arms through Steve’s so that his dusty hands could rest on his abdomen, inches below his belly-button. He pulled Steve’s body flush against his, moving his hands slightly, leaving little white trails in his fingertips’ wake. Bucky wanted a straight back from Steve, and he showed him just how straight with his chest against Steve’s bare back. Then Bucky’s fingers were on the move again, their path evident like a shooting star’s, from Steve’s stomach down to the sides of his thighs, the swell just below the curve of his ass.

Goosebumps spread out under Bucky’s hands the way waves ripple out from a dropped stone, and all Steve could feel was Bucky _feeling_ him. He leaned back a little into Bucky, giving himself over to the gentle guide his hands provided.

“Open your legs just an inch more,” Bucky’s voice was dangerous in Steve’s ear with that direction. He was reacting in every single way, including the most obvious, and all Bucky could do was keep putting him into place.

“ _What?”_ Steve breathed the word out quietly, waiting for Bucky to say it again. Instead, his hands were back at Steve’s sides, and one of his thighs was sliding between Steve’s, dividing him in half like he needed to be. Steve’s head fell back on Bucky’s shoulder, and Bucky’s hand found his cock, where it was thick between his legs, dying for attention.

“Mineral dust does not a good lube make,” Bucky said with his lips on Steve’s ear, before he woke up with a fright, the way he usually does when it’s a dying dream. He could feel Bucky’s hand on him, feel him pressed against him, and he screwed his eyes shut tight to hold onto the sensation. Slipping a sweaty hand into his boxers, Steve stroked himself the way he wanted Bucky to, would have died to slip back into the dream so subconscious-Bucky could.

He’d already been in a state upon waking so it didn’t take more than a few twists of his wrist, the technique he only used on certain occasions, when he wanted to come so hard he lost track of himself. His orgasm hit him like a ton of bricks and he made a mess of his belly and the embarrassment set in nearly before it had had a chance to end, but he had to admit it was good.

He played the film of the dream in his mind over and over again, letting the sticky remains of it dry on his skin. _Mineral dust does not a good lube make_? What an awful line. The whole dream had been awful, if he had to think about it in a professional way. Orgasming over a client was a hundred percent something he wasn’t okay with as a professional.

However, as a man, he didn’t mind it so much. When he went to the bathroom to shame-shower the come off his tummy away, he stopped in the mirror and closed his eyes for a second; thinking of the trails of dust Bucky had left all over him. Opening them and seeing nothing of the sort made Steve feel an actual sense of loss. He was fucked.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'every other freckle' by Alt-J. This is going to be long and it'll get to being super explicit at some point but that time isn't now! Also, this is unusually super short but I promise the following parts will be appropriately lengthy.


End file.
